


When the Spring Brings the Sun

by Gebiurl (fookin_tossah)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Zayn is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fookin_tossah/pseuds/Gebiurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn is an artist who has Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and dreams of pretty boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Spring Brings the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I am terribly sad and wrote this two years ago and figured I should post this because why not?  
> Am I right?  
> Enjoy my sad Zayn.

I dreamed of a boy in November. It was snowing, just like it usually is this time of year, and he was there. A tiny little thing with eyes as bright as the sky when it’s sunny and bright. It was such a contrast from the dark and gloomy sky of when it snows.

He smiled at me, just for a fraction of a second, and then he was gone--whisked away by reality and kept into my subconscious. I woke up that day with a small smile and fingers itching to draw him. 

But my alarm goes off and I have to get my day started so I’m not late for work...again. I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s all quick and quiet in the morning, my winter coat hanging on my work chair and my keys in the ash tray. I quit smoking a few years ago, but Doniyah made me the ashtray, I don’t have the heart to throw it out.

I sigh softly, it’s just so quiet. I miss Spring. I miss the green grass and bright blue eyes. I smile a little, he did remind me a lot of Spring.

But the little machine in the corner reminds me of Winter, of how cold it is and how white it starts. My doctor told me it’d help with my seasonal depression. It’s bullshit. What helps is when the sun finally comes back and I can hear the kids playing outside again and I can actually take a walk without worrying about frostbite.

But time doesn’t allow me to dwell on anything, I’m going to be late. I walk out towards my job, just a mindless job where I make others miserable by denying their claims. I’m one of the most hated people like...ever. Insurance is awful.

It’s listening to people either tell me how awful I am or how much they hate me, or it’s them crying. Which is the worst because I’m not allowed to do anything about it. This isn’t what I signed up for when I decided to move out and become an independent and functioning human of society. I wanted to be an artist. Not....not this. Not some miserable bloke with a 9-5 job and too much debt because of an attempt to go to college. I never wanted to be my dad. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree...if there was any apples at this time of year. I groan again.

I pick up a pen as the woman on the phone cries, I need a little sunshine. I slide over my notebook and start to sketch two eyes. Two bright eyes with little crinkles on the side. They’d be blue if I had my art stuff here. It makes me smile just the tiniest bit.

November is always just so white, but December is gray.

........................................

 

In December the insomnia kicks in and I can’t dream of him. But I want to. December is really when my disorder flourishes. I stop seeing the brightness of all the colors, they’re slowly fading. But they seem to be fading into my art these days. There’s a colorful painting leaning against my wall right in front of my bed. It’s of a boy with bright blue eyes and surrounded by hundreds of red flowers. Not just any flower, but all flowers. Even flowers that aren’t supposed to be red I painted red. They had to be red, that’s how I wanted to see him.

I wake up to colors every day now because of that painting. But I can’t just...leave it on the ground. In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep, I finally take it and hang it up between my two windows. They may show me the bane of my existence, but now there’s this dream boy in between them. It makes me feel a little better.

The sketch I first drew of him is in my little cubicle, hanging right where I always used to look and there’d be nothing. Now he’s there. He’s my little ray of sunshine, if you will. When the customers are yelling in my ear or just being awful, I can look up and he reminds me that Spring will be here soon. I will be ok.

I survive another day.

When Christmas time is almost here, I dream of him yet again. This is the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks and I’m rewarded with a new dream of him. There’s red everywhere. Red twinkle lights, red streamers, red presents. And gold. All of the gold that I swear shines just as bright as the Christmas lights and the fire behind him is as warm as the sun.

He’s in the middle of it all, laughing this time. An actual laugh that I can’t hear. But I can see it. The only thing missing from this dream is blue, it’s all just gold and red and even green because the tree can’t be any other color. But there’s not bright blue and it makes my heart ache a bit but it’s ok because he’s laughing. Actually laughing and it’s the middle of winter but he’s so happy and...just...ugh.

I wake up in the later afternoon of Monday. I have a whole week off of work. I usually spend Christmas alone, but today..today I buy a train ticket for Bradford and go home. I have time to pack some of my art supplies and some clothes and then I’m off to the train station.

I leave my anti-Winter depression machine at home. I don’t want to need it anymore.

On the train, I take out my sketchpad and start to draw my dream. It’s just quick and mostly a reference picture. I want to actually paint it. I want it to be huge and just...perfect. I smile a bit at the sketch, it’s slightly awful right now. But nothing can ever be really awful when he’s the focus of the picture.

My family, by now, doesn’t expect me home for Christmas. I always gave them an excuse to not have to come home and face them as I was battling with this...seasonal disorder. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I think I’m getting better. I’m taking it day by day.

It’s a bit of a shock to them when I show up on their doorstep with just two bags in my hand and a timid smile.

“Happy holidays, everyone,” I say softly.

My mum cries and steps forward to hug me, the rest of the family following in suit. They drag me inside and there’s like a burst of life inside of that house. Colors are everywhere, most clashing because there’s no set pattern. It’s Christmas in a family home, there should never be a set pattern anyways.

I smile a bit more now.

This December wasn’t gray. It was red--it was full of love.

New Year’s I spend it watching the ball drop, wrapped up in blankets with my sisters, and with hot chocolate. We count down. We cheer. We laugh, the image of him laughing still fresh and clear in my mind.

When I go back home to London, it’s January. January is black.

..........................................................

I turn twenty five today, January twelfth. I don’t feel older. I don’t think I’m wiser. I’m just the same--maybe worse off than when I was eighteen and didn’t care about anyone.

The Christmas painting is hanging up in my living room, right above a little table I have. It’s massive and bright and it helps a lot. In the mail, I receive something from back home. It’s a few framed pictures of me and my family. And one that’s been wrapped up in newspaper that says to not open until tomorrow.

Those get put around my house, one even on my nightstand. The wrapped one sits on the bed until I get home from work that day. I draw a bit more and wait until it’s finally 12:01 to open it.

 

I stare at it, a little stunned, before finally caving in and crying. It’s a picture of me and dad. The last one of us together. My graduation. He was so proud.

Today is the seven year anniversary of his death. I haven’t seen his face in that long either, I refused to look at anything that reminded me of him.

My insomnia returns and with a vengeance. I’m tired but completely wired, unable to even lay down without having the urge--no, the need to do something. That picture fucks me up. I wasn’t ready. 

I draw the boy in charcoal next. I make his eyes darker than usual, a little too dark. He’s not happy in this one, he just stares back at me blankly. I tear it to pieces. He’s not allowed to be unhappy.

More and more drawings of him appear around my flat, but they’re not hung--mostly just scattered about. He’s so sad in all of them, just so fucking sad. It’s killing me because it’s like the Spring has been sucked from him and it’s just not fair.

I’m back to where I started. I’m back to being numb from the cold again. January stays black and my once bright boy stays quiet and sad in the back of my mind. I think I’ve managed to ruin him too.

January is filled with sleepless nights and more failed attempts at drawing him. Eventually I stop trying altogether. The days blur together in a mess of snow and shitty London weather with even shittier London people.

I’ve taken down his sketch from my cubicle. It’s under all of my paper work and sometimes, when I actually finish it, I can see him smiling at me. It just makes me sad now, though. So I just cover it up with more paperwork.

January ends black and February is gray....until it’s just not gray. It’s red.

.....................................

 

It’s valentine’s day the next time I see color. A red flower is just thrusted into my hand and I can hear people laughing all around me. I stand on the corner for far too long just staring at the red rose in my hand. I have work but I can’t bring myself to go anymore. There’s a boy waiting to be drawn back at home.

I turn back around and head back to my flat, calling my boss and telling him I won’t make it in today. Personal reasons.

When I finally get my hands on a canvas and paint, it’s like a rush of adrenaline that has me working so quickly. I don’t want this inspiration to leave me. I haven’t felt like this in...a while. It’s like a small breeze of Spring.

I manage to get paint like everywhere. My whole Valentine’s weekend is spent just painting. It’s all of him and that bloody red flower. He’s happy in all of them, cradling the little red rose close to him, protecting it from the harsh winter.

The last one is of him on the street, turned away from me. The flower is in one hand while the other hand is outstretched, almost like he’s beckoning someone off the canvas to come hold it. It’s beautiful. I laugh a bit as I look at them all. He’s not ruined. He’s back.

I take a mini-holiday after that, just a week off of work to work on my art. I actually get sleep now, no dreams, just sleep. I’m exhausted every day because of all of the effort I’m putting into these new pieces. Most are of that boy, some are of other things. One’s of my dad. That one has me tearing up through most of it. But then I’m back to just working on things with the boy.

My mood’s better when I get back to work, people even notice it. Some bloke there with curly hair even tells me good morning. I can feel something brimming inside of me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there.

Some time in late February, I find myself in the break room, eating alone when the guy with curly hair sits in front of me.

“I bet you’re an artist,” he says and points at me with a fork.

“How do you figure that?” I ask lightly, looking at him a little curiously.

“You’ve got artist hands,” he says and smiles, looking at my hands.

“Thanks?”  
  


“Welcome. So...how long have you been working here? I’ve never seen you around.”.

“Uhm..two years.”

He blushes and bites his lip “Well, that’s awkward. Uhm I was wondering if...you’d like to get dinner some time?”

“Yeah. Yeah that’d be nice.” I like eating. And company would be nice, I don’t really have that at the moment, anyways.

“I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Zayn,” I respond.

  
  
  


Dinner is at seven at some restaurant I have to google and get lost trying to find. I’m late. He’s already there waiting for me. I go in, he’s not wearing any bright colors. He blends in to the weather outside.

“Sorry. I got lost,” I admit as I sit down in front of him.

“It’s ok, I just got here not too long ago anyways.”

Dinner ends up not being as quiet as I thought, he’s a bit chatty and his questions make me actually want to talk to him. The food’s shitty as hell, though. But I don’t complain out loud. Just push it to the side and don’t ask for a box.

“So. What do you draw? Like fruits on a table or what?” He swirls his drink and leans in a bit towards me.

“Uh...just stuff.”

“Come on, you can tell me.”

I laugh a bit and shrug, “just. I don’t know. It sounds weird.”

“Well...can I see it?”

I look up at him at that, his hand is on top of mine now. I glance at it before looking up.

“Like...take you back to mine so you can look at them?” I question.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

I nod a bit dumbly and pay for dinner. I just want to be nice to him.

We take a cab back to my place, he doesn’t really like walking in the cold. Good thing. I don’t either. In the cab, he sits close to me. He’s warm. Just not warm enough.

His large hand wraps around my wrist as I lead him up, he’s very touchy. That’s ok, I guess. I’m really not. We even each other out. It’s nice.

I don’t really hear what he says as I lead him up and into the flat. It’s a bit messy. I apologize for that. He doesn’t mind though, and he takes off his coat.

“Where is it?”

“It’s all in there,” I say and point into the living room.

He walks quickly into it, smiling widely. Then he just stops, I don’t follow him just yet. He must hate it. I sigh and walk into the living room to see him staring at all the paintings, mouth covered.

“Who is he?” He asks softly.

“Uhm...” I look around, feeling a warmness spilling into my heart as I look at the boy in the paintings. “The love of my life,” I admit.

Harry cries...and smiles. Which is weird. He explains that that’s all he’s ever wanted, to be loved like this imaginary boy is. Well, not imaginary. Harry also tells me that people in dreams are people from reality, that I’ve probably met this boy and just don’t remember it but he’s in my subconscious or something like that.

After that, it’s all a blur really. Everything moves so fast and so sudden. Harry starts talking to his sister who knows a guy who knows a guy who’s dating a girl who owns an art gallery in the middle of London.

It’s March third when my exhibit opens, all of my art of the beautiful boy and other things on display and for sale. I like to think that March is yellow, it’s a bright and happy color. The last painting I painted has the boy with a yellow flower, but that one’s hung in my room. That one’s not for sale.

A few things are for display only and not for sale.

I have to explain that to a couple who want to buy my father’s picture. They buy a different one. I sell a few the first night. I don’t go home until the very end, I wanted to go home sooner, I felt too stuffy in a suit and tie. But Harry insisted I dress up.

The exhibit lasts for two weeks exactly before I have to take it down. Only a handful of my artwork is left, I sold quite a bit of it. It hurt to part ways from the work, but someone else needed a beautiful boy from my dreams to brighten up their day.

Today is the official first day of Spring--March 18th. It’s an anomaly this year. It’s so early, but that’s ok. I don’t mind. I’m packing up one of the paintings when I hear someone come in. I don’t look up.

A small gasp is what finally causes me to look back and my heart stops a bit. There’s a tiny boy with bright blue eyes that are extra bright because of unshed tears. He’s staring at himself in one of the first paintings I did of him.

His eyes move to look at another one. And then the other one.

I didn’t want him to cry. I stand up slowly, “I-I’m sor--

“Are you the artist?” He asks slowly, looking at me now.

I completely freeze as I stare into those eyes. Those eyes have haunted me for months and now...now they’re here. The boy from my dreams is here and I’m standing around like an idiot.

“Why’d you paint me so pretty?” He asks softly, a little brokenly, even.

“Because you’re beautiful,” I reply easily.

He smiles, I feel the warmth of the sun for the first time this Spring.

............................................

 

November is white, again. It’s white because I’m face down in the snow, having tripped over my own feet chasing around after Louis. His laugh is loud in my ears. It’s infectious and I laugh too as I get up and chase after him once more, spinning him around when I finally catch him.

We both tumble to the ground when I trip again, he lands on top of me, placing little kisses over my face because I’m his “hero”.

Even with Winter here again, I can still feel the sun hot on my skin. It’s not dark anymore. My months don’t really have a color, they have a Louis who fights off the Winter blues with kisses, tea, and snuggles.

“We should get inside before you get sick,” I comment against his lips.

“I never get sick. I have a superhuman immune system.”

“What about last week wh--

“I obviously wasn’t superhuman then,” he says sassily and I laugh, kissing him a few more times before getting up and practically having to carry him back inside. He loves the snow. He also happens to love me.

There's more kisses as I place him on the couch and wrap him up in a large blanket I have, going off to make his nasty tea. He sings quietly to himself, my flat is never quiet anymore. My coat is never on the table anymore and my keys are barely even found. I still don't have my sunshine, though. But Louis is far brighter than the sun.

"Draw me like one of your french girls," I hear Louis say lowly as he poses in the doorway. Yeah, I think I will draw him. Later, though.

He walks over and stands in front of me, chin on my chest as I look down at him. My arms wrap around him. "I love you."

"I love you too, babe."

"Can I have tea and cuddles, now? Later you can even get a blow job."

I laugh loudly at that and nod. Yeah. My life is never quiet, but I like that.  



End file.
